


Stupid Kid

by aspermoth



Category: Progress Wrestling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Break Up, Character Study, Drinking, Friendship break up, M/M, Pining, Swearing, Unrequited Love, implied Trent Seven/Tyler Bate/Pete Dunne if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 11:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16136738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: Mark Andrews has been keeping his composure quite well when it comes to the Eddie Dennis situation. But driving home from a show in Devizes the weekend before Wembley, something happens that finally brings his emotions to a head.





	Stupid Kid

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any triggers in here that need warning for, please let me know and I'll add them to a note at the end. I will mention here that there is a very brief reference to vomiting, but it is one line and nothing graphic.
> 
> This is basically my attempt to make Mandrews more sympathetic than he's made himself.

Mark usually loved rain.

He was the kind of guy who'd rush out into one of those brief Florida cloudbursts for the fun of it and come back in afterwards dripping wet, shaking water out of his hair like a dog.

The kind of guy who found grey, drizzly days delightful 'cos you could shut yourself inside with your bandmates and get some song-writing done without feeling guilty.

The kind of guy who'd sit by the window and watch a thunderstorm as long as he could, just to marvel at its power. There was a reason he'd gone from calling himself Lightning Kid to White Lightning, after all.

He loved the rain.

But on a Saturday night at who knows what time (his dashboard clock broke fifteen months ago and he never got it fixed), crawling at fifteen fucking miles an hour down the fucking motorway in stop-start traffic, with nothing to keep him awake and distracted but Spotify cranked up to maximum and the most disgusting can of Monster he'd ever drunk in his life?

Yeah. Rain wasn't exactly welcome on top of everything else.

His own thoughts even less so.

He'd been trying to avoid them for weeks. Months, even. When he wasn't wrestling, he was working out, and when he wasn't doing either of those, he was hanging out with friends or fiddling with games on his phone – something, anything to distract him from what was coming up next week.

But not now. Nobody else had had to come home this way, so he was stuck in the car alone, nothing to look at but the windscreen wipers rattling back and forth and the almost neon glow of taillights ahead and headlights both behind and sweeping past on the other side of the road. No traffic for them. Lucky bastards.

It was fine. He had music and enough caffeine in his system to keep him awake until Wembley (no, don't think about Wembley). It was fine. He was fine.

Then the song changed.

It didn't hit him straight away. Not until about ten seconds in, when the vocals started.

"There are things that used to make me smile... One of them was you for just a little while..."

It felt like he'd grabbed a live electrical cable. Heart shaking. Hands burning. And in a moment he was somewhere else. A different time and place.

It was a summer morning, bright sunshine pouring into his car as it twisted and twined its way through some tiny country lanes. Just the two of them. Him and Eddie. And they were lost. Hopelessly lost. Although Mark would never admit it. He was just taking the scenic route. Never mind that this was supposed to be a short cut.

Fuck it. They were still running early for the show. And if it meant a few more hours in the car with Eddie... well. That wasn't something Mark was going to complain about.

Eddie had the aux cord and a post-relationship playlist blaring from his iPod in honour of Mark's most recent break-up, a playlist that had meandered through AFI, Misfits and Avenged Sevenfold to Alkaline Trio's _Stupid Kid_. And the two of them were just... singing along. Having a good time.

That was when Mark glanced over at Eddie. Saw how the sunlight framed his face. And his stomach twisted and lurched the way it did before jumping off the balcony at the Walkabout, a mix of excitement and terror, and he knew, he just _knew_ –

A car horn blared. Shook him out of it. Reminded him where he was. On the motorway. In the dark and rain. Eddie nowhere to be seen.

The space between him and the car in front had stretched enough to fit a double decker bus. Didn't matter. He couldn't breathe. Needed to get out. Get away.

The exit to the services. That'd work.

He swerved out into the inside lane. Nearly clipped someone pulling forward and over into the gap he'd left. Another horn screamed but he didn't care. It didn't matter. Not his car, not him, none of it.

Fingers gripping the steering wheel. So tight it hurt. His chest throbbed.

Into the slip lane. He started to go left, realised it was the lorry lane, just avoided clipping a curb going right instead. Past a Day's Inn and into the car park. Quiet. It was late. But there were still cars. And he needed space or he was gonna wreck something.

There. At the back. An almost empty row.

Mark took a sharp left then right into a bay, maybe two, it was the worst parking job he'd ever done in his life, but fuck it, _fuck_ it.

He switched off the engine. The music died. Everything went dark. And Mark leant back in his seat, buried his face in his hands, and howled.

A year. An entire fucking year he'd held this down and pushed it away. Drowned out the whispering in the back of his skull. Choked down the sadness until it congealed into rage in his chest and came back up as poison and bile. Ignored the pangs in his stomach like the ghosts of Jimmy Havoc's boots crashing down onto his belly every time he saw the hate on Eddie's face.

Eight more days and he would've made it. It would've been over.

Twelve months and twelve days. That was how long it had been since Alexandra Palace. He didn't even have to think about it. He just knew. Twelve fucking months and twelve fucking days since it all came to pieces in his hands, like the moment when you're on the top rope for a moonsault and feel your foot slip as you go, and he'd been hanging in the air ever since, weightless, waiting, and now he'd hit the outside with a thud that made the audience suck in their breath as one, hands over their mouths in horror at the way his head twisted and his neck crunched into the concrete.

But there was no referee coming to check on him here. Nobody to throw up the X and call a medic. No partner to hold his hand and whisper how everything was gonna be okay.

That's what Eddie used to do. Would never do again.

Mark slammed his wrists down on the steering wheel. How could he have been so fucking _stupid_? So fucking _oblivious_? How had he missed Eddie's pain until it festered into something neither of them could heal?

He hadn't known.

When he'd picked Pete to be his partner at PROGRESS, Eddie hadn't been wrestling long, had less than thirty matches under his belt. Pete had had over twice that. And Mark had worked against him so many times and knew his strengths and how to work with them. Eddie was his best friend, but the unknown wrestling-wise. And he'd still picked him second without considering anyone else.

He'd had no idea.

And when he reinstated Ospreay... he'd wrestled him in their opening round match. And he knew Will didn't have anything else _but_ wrestling to fall back on. Not much education, no prospects, it was wrestling or nothing, and he wanted it and needed it and Eddie was okay, wasn't he? He had a full-time job. He'd survive.

He hadn't thought.

At Ally Pally. He'd meant it when he tried to give Eddie the pin. He really had. But taking the pin when it rolled around was a reflex, as simple as breathing. It was what you did. When the pin comes up, you take it. He'd just gotten carried away. He never meant to hurt Eddie. He didn't.

How could he not have realised it? Not have seen it?

He slammed his wrists against the wheel again. And again. Maybe he was hoping for bruises. Maybe he just wanted to feel the hurt inside him somewhere else, anywhere else. Or maybe he just wanted to break something and if he hit the windows, the glass would shatter beneath his fists and he'd have to pay for a fucking new one.

He hadn't seen it coming. Not for a second. And now all he could do was look back over the pieces to see where the rot set in. How Eddie was right and it _was_ all his fault.

The first thing that popped into Mark's mind was when they'd shared a hotel room for Unboxing.It wasn't the first time they'd shared a room, or a bed for that matter; it happens when you haven't got much spare cash for accommodation.

When they'd gotten back to the room after the show, Eddie had been knackered and dropped off almost immediately, but Mark had been too wired on the adrenaline, mind racing too fast to sleep even though his whole body was aching.

Eddie was a clingy sleeper. Always had been. And before long, he'd wrapped himself around Mark like ivy, all warmth and solid, heavy dependability. His Eddie.

He'd let himself pretend. Just for a little while. Pretend that Eddie knew it was Mark in his arms and wanted him there, needed him there. And it had felt safe, like jumping off the top rope when he knew there was someone to catch him. It had felt like home.

Until Eddie had mumbled his girlfriend's name in his sleep and the guilt had washed over Mark like a cold shower and left him sick to his stomach. So much so he'd had to wriggle free of Eddie's grip until he was hanging on the very edge of the bed, missing that weight.

Jealous. He'd been so jealous of her. Still was. Jealous of the way Eddie would interrupt their time together to give her a quick call. Jealous of the way he'd whisper "I love you" to her before hanging up the phone. And he tried to squash it down because it was stupid; Eddie still cared about him; he could care about more than one person.

That was when he'd decided to back off. Just a little bit. Eddie had a girlfriend and he clearly fucking loved her to pieces. He didn't need Mark trying to push his way in there, trying to take Eddie for himself.

Oh fuck. What if he'd gone too far? What if he'd tried to keep Eddie at arm's length and just pushed him away? Was that why he hadn't seen how much Eddie was hurting? Because he was too busy trying to stay away so he wouldn't do something stupid and spoil everything?

What if he'd broken them apart by trying to keep them together?

The car felt too small. Claustrophobic. He needed to get out. He needed air.

He slammed the door behind him and the whole car shook. The shock of the rain almost knocked the air out of his lungs. But his aching body was burning and he set off across the car park at a run, as though he'd somehow slip through this world into another one where he'd end up crashing into Eddie's arms, face pressed against his chest, where it was safe, where it was home.

He was never going home.

Mark dropped to his knees on the wet tarmac. All he wanted to do was slam his hands into the ground until they bled, like he was trying to drum up the crowd during ring announcement, like it would draw an answering vibration from Eddie doing the same next to him, but what was the use?

After the last London Chapter, he'd gone out for drinks with Trent and Pete and Tyler. There had been shots. He couldn't remember what of. Just the burn of it going down and the way it fuzzed up his brain, made him forget what Eddie had said to him, and more importantly, what he'd said to Eddie.

He'd ended up out the back of the pub, kneeling on the pavement like he was kneeling on the tarmac, except he'd had his phone then. He'd called so many times. Over and over again. And every time, he'd heard the same thing.

"Hi, Eddie Dennis here. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

And every time, he'd tried to say something through the mist of alcohol in his brain and the lump in his throat, tried to say "I'm sorry" or "Can't we fix this?" or "I love you", but nothing ever came out and he'd just hang up and try again until the point where his stomach rebelled and he'd thrown up in the gutter.

He'd gone home after that, and had to try to sleep while Trent got lucky in a loud and obnoxious fashion in the other room. Not that that would be the case this time. Trent was with the lads down in Maidstone. Mark had nothing waiting for him but an empty house and a broken heart.

Eddie had never called back. He never would.

Soaking wet, cold, sore, Mark pulled himself back to his feet. There was no way to make this right and no matter how much he wanted to just fucking run off into the night and disappear, he couldn't. He had to face up to what he'd done. What he'd made. And all he could do was fucking pray Eddie would find some kind of peace in inflicting pain and maybe – just maybe – if Mark suffered enough, he'd come back.

There had to be hope. Or what was the point?

He walked back to the car and, shivering, got back in. He'd never been so tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of living. Tired of everything. And there were still fifty miles to go.

He skipped to the next track on Spotify; an advert started playing as he set off. Out of the services and onto the slip road for the motorway. Headlights and taillights flashed past, the traffic flowing freely again. The road stretched before him.

The advert ended. A song started. One that he knew like the back of his hand. One that cut. But he sang along anyway, driving into the dark and rain and cold.

"Day one, on my own, it's so cold in this house..."


End file.
